


Smug Bastard

by I_am_lampy



Series: After All These Years [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, And All Your Beautiful Comments, Because I'm a Slut For You Guys, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Our boys are still in the hotel room and what starts off as doctor/patient role-play becomes John playing Sherlock like a violin and then gloating about it. The smug bastard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My dear Lovelies,
> 
> I can't stay away from y'all! I'm addicted to you. Here I offer you a thousand words of pure smut.

"Mr. Holmes, put your hands on the table and bend over. Yes, just like that. You're going to feel something cold – that's the lubricant – and then pressure as I insert my finger into your anus. It's perfectly normal to get an erection when you feel me pressing against your prostate."

And then John's finger was pressing inside of him, surprisingly easy, and a shiver snaked up Sherlock's spine from the point of contact. He gasped.

"I'll need you to spread your legs a little, Mr. Holmes," John said and Sherlock could hear him trying not to laugh. Sherlock spread his legs. "Please tell me if you feel any pain, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock felt John moving in closer behind him and then he pulled his finger most of the way out and added a second finger.

"Any pain?" John murmured.

"No," Sherlock said.

John gently pushed both fingers in partway and an embarrassing whimper escaped Sherlock's mouth. He rocked back against John without meaning to, an instinctive response to the pleasure.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said, the roleplay dispensed with. He skimmed the palm of his free hand over one of Sherlock's butt cheeks. Sherlock let his breath out in small puffs, trying not to become a complete _slut_ about this. He wanted to bang his head on the table and there were filthy, filthy things building up in his brain that he wanted to say so instead he just let it all out _whoosh whoosh whoosh_ in little breaths and kept himself still.

"You're tensing up," John said. "I think we should stop."

"No, no. That's the – we shouldn't stop. It's important I get used to it. Very important. _Vital_."

"You don't _have_ to do this if you don't enjoy it, Sherlock," John said, his fingers almost all the way out.

Sherlock thought _fuck it_ and rocked back against John so hard that John stumbled. Sherlock lost the feeling of John's fingers inside him and he snapped his head around and said, "John. I am trying very hard not to be…overly excited. Please continue."

"Okay," John said, sounding doubtful. "Are you sure it doesn't hurt?"

"I think I'll be perfectly comfortable if you were to use your penis, even now."

"Oh, no, Sherlock. I don't think you would be."

"Well, then get one of those things! The things you used!"

"But the smallest one I brought is an inch in diameter! That's quite a bit larger than my finger."

"Dammit, John, I'm a grown man, and if I say I want you to fuck me in the arse, then just do it and stop coddling me!"

Silence. Sherlock lowered his arms and dropped his head onto them. He wasn't embarrassed, precisely. More like – annoyed. He was annoyed that with John, it had been beautiful and profound but Sherlock had made his turn into a farce. _Of course you did_ , he thought to himself.

John had looked and sounded so beautiful when Sherlock had done it to him. Physically, it was phenomenal, the pressure around his cock so evenly tight, nothing like a hand or a mouth. John had squeezed his muscles the whole time, unconsciously, contracting and relaxing continuously, and Sherlock had forced himself not to pound himself into John. The flesh he was buried in was so _smooth_ , like silk, the feeling when he drew himself out and in, out and in was – he didn't have words. At least not nice ones.

But then – but _then_ \- the psychological aspect – thinking _I'm inside him, joined with him_. It had had a profound effect on him and that only heightened the physical sensations. He had been so high, his love for John had felt like too much for him to hold in, an ache deep inside him that was almost pain, as though loving him was the same as losing him and that by being inside him he had somehow tapped into that.

Oh, it made no sense. It made no sense at all but that's how it had been. And he had showered John with such disgustingly romantic words _you're all I've ever needed_ and _if I had to choose between my work and you, I would choose you_ and it didn't matter if it was the truth or not. It was the truth but he had always thought saying things like that when you were making love to someone was like saying _I feel these things because you're letting me put my penis in your body_ and it hadn't been like that at all.

John had been beautiful underneath him, almost delicate. Fragile. Easily broken, easily lost. What they had was hard won. They had fought for it. People had died for it. _They_ had almost died for it.

So of course Sherlock had to go and shout out _when I tell you to fuck me in the arse just do it_ like an idiot, ruining whatever beauty might have come from it with his impatience and inability to filter his thoughts before they came careening out of his mouth.

 _Idiot_ , he thought to himself.

But then John let his palm glide over Sherlock's rear and then the second palm on the second cheek and then they dipped between and out again, sliding over Sherlock's skin over and over again until Sherlock began to feel like he couldn't take it anymore because his nerves were too stimulated. John stepped closer and slid both hands between Sherlock's cheeks and then out again and around and over until the pleasure became something else entirely. It became a jumble of things that didn't go together. His skin was hot and cold. The feeling was sharp and soft. He wanted John to stop touching him but he wanted him to touch him more.

Then John slid his fingers inside Sherlock again, two fingers moving deeper and deeper while the other hand kept gliding over the skin of Sherlock's backside, reaching over to attend to the other cheek and all the while John's fingers seemed to be searching for something, not just literally but metaphorically. _Oh, it turned out beautiful after all_ Sherlock thought right before John found what he was looking for and the pleasure was better than his heart pumping heroin into his brain because it was _John_ and then –

And then Sherlock came, startling himself with the suddenness. There had been no build up, or if there had, he hadn't noticed it, and then his semen splashed onto his foot and he looked at it in confusion, while convulsing through the ridiculously intense orgasm. Sherlock had assumed all orgasms followed the same pattern. There was the buildup then that point where you were hanging there and then the sudden shattering burst, like a small supernova had gone off in his balls.

But this was only the supernova, except it wasn't smooth like all his other orgasms. If they were a supernova, a trillion particles singing through his nerves at the speed of light then this orgasm was like a grenade going off, the pleasure ripping through his nerves like shrapnel. His body was jerking involuntarily; he couldn't stop his muscles. John's finger stroked him from the inside through the whole thing and when Sherlock's body had finally released him from the orgasm and he had let himself fall forward onto the table, John's fingers had slipped slowly out of him, causing a few light tremors to move along his bones.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and tugged a little. "Get off the table and come to bed. You look like you're going to fall."

Sherlock willed his body up off the table. His legs were shaking as though he had run them into exhaustion. At first his body didn't listen and then it remembered how to obey him and he was able to stumble over to the bed where he collapsed face down, his feet hanging off the end.

Sherlock felt John get on the bed and then he was laying himself down beside Sherlock, ducking his head to look into Sherlock's eyes, smirking like the smug bastard he was.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said and the tone of his voice let Sherlock know that John was about to brag right to Sherlock's face. Smug bastard. As though Sherlock hadn't _been_ there. "I've always wanted to play a musical instrument. And now I have one. Oh, the music I drew out of you. It was like a combination of a growl and a moan, but not quite a groan. And it just went on and on and on. I thought for sure you would – "

Sherlock made a noise that sounded halfway between spitting and scoffing, a sound like a balloon suddenly letting out all its air. "Did not."

"Trust me. You did, Sherlock. You didn't realize you were doing it. At some point when I was stroking your skin – it gets all the nerves excited, you see – you made this noise. Wow. I just. Wow. And you kept going and going. I thought, how he is breathing? You were rocking and groaning, rocking and groaning. You had no idea you were doing it, which just made it so much more _fantastic_. And then when I started rubbing against your prostate, the pitch went up and then helllllld and then – Boom! You came. Bringing my musical performance to an end."

"Smug bastard."

"Yes, well. I won't deny it."

"I think I have cum on my foot," Sherlock said.

John bent his head and looked.

"Well, it's dripping on the carpet now."

He sat back up and then stretched himself out next to Sherlock, clasping his hands behind his head.

"Two words, John."

"John's amazing?"

"No – "

"John's a god?"

"That's three words."

"I know, but I liked the way it sounded."

"Smug bastard."

"You can put it on my gravestone. _Here lies a smug bastard. He was a fucking god in the sack."_

"Jesus Christ," Sherlock scoffed.

"Nope. That name's already taken. How about John Almighty?"

"Stop talking."

"John the – "

Sherlock darted his hand out and smacked it over John's mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> There are many arguments about the appropriate usage of the word "come" versus "cum." I would like to clarify my standing on the issue:
> 
> I use "come" when I am referring to orgasm. "He came." Come, came, coming, etc., are verbs and to me they will always be verbs and only verbs.
> 
> I use "cum" when referring to semen, the actual product of an orgasm. "He came, his cum spilling onto his hand." I use this word when I want to convey how heated it is between two people. It's a graphic word and we associate it with pornography so it adds a sense of coarseness to the proceedings. I use it when I want the two to be uncivilized. Two people having at each other, basically. I also use it very sparely in dialogue because people say "cum" and not "semen" when they're speaking and, again, the word "come" will ALWAYS be a verb in my mind.
> 
> My other reason for using "cum" instead of "come" is that if I feel it necessary to use that word, I'm not going to hide behind the more "polite" spelling of "come". It seems silly to me to want the scene to be dirty and then to not own that dirtiness.
> 
> As anyone who knows me will tell you, I OWN my dirtiness. I'm proud of my smut. But in the 30,000 words I have so far written of this series, I think I have only used the word "cum" twice.
> 
> I always welcome emails from readers about anything that tickles your fancy, even if it's just randomness!
> 
> archiveofMYown@gmail.com  
> Teddy


End file.
